


Priorities

by lunar_clownfish



Series: Number 8: The Cure [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Depictions of pain/injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, So much angst, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunar_clownfish/pseuds/lunar_clownfish
Summary: The apocalypse is on its way, but when does happiness come first with the fate of the world at hand?
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Reader, Ben Hargreeves & Reader, Diego Hargreeves/Reader, Diego Hargreeves/You, Klaus Hargreeves & Reader, Luther Hargreeves & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Vanya Hargreeves & Reader
Series: Number 8: The Cure [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913452
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Hell Hath no Fury

Five was having the worst week of his life.

Which said something, considering the fact that he had spent so many years of his life wandering the barren landscape of a post-apocalyptic Earth.

He had landed in Dallas, late 1963, only to be met with nuclear warfare. He had watched his family get blown to bits, watched as Hazel was stuffed with bullets. But now, he was on a mission. 

Five had ten days left to find his family.

Ten days left to stop the end of the world, once again. 

Ten days left to find out why no one had been able to find (Y/n).

\------

Five stands in Elliot’s kitchen, as he explains his careful documentation of all the mysterious appearances over a span of three years.

“It always started with a bright light, blue, and then...bam!” Elliot gestures enthusiastically, “Someone shows up from out of nowhere.” He shuffles through his data, trying to get the point across. Five drinks from his coffee, exasperated.

“Yes, but did you look at them? You know, up close?” He doesn’t have time for this.

“I have some pictures. There’s the first one, and the big, sensitive one.” 

“Sensitive?” Five echoes, amused, trying not to spill the liquid from his cup.

“Yeah, he just kept running around, calling someone’s name,” Elliot answers, grasping at straws, “uh...Allison! They all came back to look for each other, but eventually, they just...stopped.”

“So they’re alive,” Five contemplates, looking closely at the board with newspaper clippings and grainy photographs. Elliot hesitates, remembering something.

“Not exactly,” he replies, telling Five about one of the arrivals, who’d shown up after the big one. Arrived like the one in the white suit, who was unconscious. But she didn’t get up. So, Elliot called the police, and they’d taken her to the hospital.

Elliot grabs a piece of paper from a stack on the desk, scribbling the address. Five snatches it from Elliot’s hand. “Why didn’t you lead with that?” he snaps, as he heads out for the address on the paper.

\------

Instead of dealing with questions from the staff, Five decides to just teleport into the different rooms, a decision he began to regret after searching through the tenth room. When he moves to the next one, he finds her.

Five runs up to the final bed of the row. (Y/n) looks asleep, healthy. Better than a day ago, where she looked closer to death than a living person.

“She’s been here for a little over a year now. Hasn’t woken up since the day they brought her in,” a nurse says, as she walks up behind Five. Had (Y/n) still been asleep during the nuclear fallout?

Five paces the room, deliberating the best course of action. The only thing he can do now, is find everyone else, and hopefully find a way to wake her up. Allison could probably use her powers, or hell, maybe even Vanya could do something. He decides to go back to Elliot’s, who has the information he needs to bring everyone together.

\-------

It’s late afternoon now, and Five is headed back to the hospital. The only other person he’d found so far had been Diego, and he hadn’t told him about (Y/n), pretending he hadn’t found her. He’s already trying to alter the timeline by saving JFK, and if Five gives him an inch by mentioning (Y/n), Diego will definitely take the mile and break out.

By now, Five decided that it would be better to move (Y/n) to Elliot’s. It’s safer than being left vulnerable to the Swedes, and at least Elliot can babysit while Five’s gone somewhere.

He teleports back into the room from earlier, only to do a double take. The bed is empty. The nurse from earlier walks into the room and Five runs up to her.

“Where is she?” he demands.

“Who?”

“Cut the bullshit, you know who I’m talking about!” Five says menacingly, getting up in her face and the nurse’s eyes widen. She looks around, making sure her supervisor isn’t around, and whispers to him quickly.

“I wasn’t here when it happened, but you can ask Elle, she was working during that shift,” she says carefully, before walking away briskly, as another nurse shoots a suspicious glance back at them.

\-------

After asking around the hospital, he finally finds Elle, who’s on her lunch break.

“The patient, where did she go?” he asks, and the nurse pounds her chest with her fist, her salad cutting off her breath. Five sighs impatiently, before slamming his fist on the table, and Elle looks up, scared.

“Some people in suits took her earlier today,” she spits out.

Five furrows his eyebrows, “What do you mean? What men in suits?”

\-------

“How much longer do you plan on sleeping?”

I open my eyes, the sun blinding me momentarily until a shadowy figure blocks the light. A young girl stands over me, the strands of her hair tickling my face.

“Do you really not have an ounce of self-preservation?” she asks, exasperated.

“Please tell me they’re okay,” I ask her, getting up quickly, brushing the dirt from my hands on my legs.

“Really, you don’t even want to know where you are?” She looks annoyed, arms akimbo. For the first time, I look around. Really look around. Everything is strangely monochromatic, almost peaceful, but to be honest it’s more unsettling.

“Am I dead?”

“Just about,” she huffs, “You somehow managed to keep yourself alive just enough to slowly heal yourself. But your body’s done all it can, it needs a final push to wake up.”

“What do you mean...like a push from you?” I ask her. Can’t I just wait to heal myself?

“You need to do it, this is out of my hands now,” she answers, walking towards an abandoned bicycle. I narrow my eyes, but before I can ask anything else, she turns and points toward a small house I hadn’t seen before, a solitary building in the middle of a vast field. 

“What do you mea-” I turn back to look at her, but she’s gone. Okay, then. I start trudging up to the house, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. I break into a sprint, the weeds stinging my arms as I run through the brush. As I climb onto the porch, I try the doorknob, and the door gives way, the darkness in the house illogical when there are such large windows out front.

“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside.

“Good, you’re here, we can get started, then.”

Fuck this. She never told me I was in hell.

I turn for the door, but it’s gone. Reginald Hargreeves walks out of the darkness. I clutch at the hem of my shirt, running my fingers over the seams. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” he repeats, “This is about what you want. You want to wake up, don’t you?”

“What I want...is for you to go away,” I answer, moving back, feeling along the walls for a way out, but no dice.

“So you wish to remain here? Dead?” he asks, face stern.

“No, but I’d rather die than be stuck talking to you.” Reginald pulls a chair from the dark, and sets another one across from him, gesturing that I take a seat. I walk up to the chair slowly, every footstep leaden. But what can he do? I’m already dead, right?

“All I did was prepare you to take on the worst, to be prepared,” he justifies. 

“No, what you did was traumatize everyone. Traumatize me.” I clarify, my voice steadying, “Do you understand the shit you put me through? To neglect a child in the name of training?”

“Control yourself, Number Eight,” he answers, arms crossed, “What I did, was a favor to your mother.”

“A favor to my…?” I repeat, incredulous, “Do you hear yourself right now? My mother would never let you get near me, let alone subject me to that sort of torture.”

“Then how do you explain how quickly I located you? When she found out about your abilities, she contacted me. Asked for assistance in helping you control your abilities.”

“No. no. no. no.” I interject, refusing to listen, “She didn’t. She would nev-”

“She did, and she was on her way to meet me that afternoon, to discuss the plans for me to take you on as a pupil. Unfortunately, the circumstances meant that those plans were simply hastened upon her untimely death,” he replies.

“Unfortunately? She was a person, she was my mother, and you equate her to a circumstance? I can’t believe you,” I argue.

“It’s the truth, regardless of whether you wish to acknowledge it. But all that is water under the bridge,” he continues, “Right now, you need to focus on your powers, and how to use them to wake up.”

“I don’t need your help, if I just wait I’ll heal eventually.”

“Your powers may hold a foundation in healing, but they were always more than just that. No matter how much more difficult I made it for you, you never managed to grasp that,” he states, matter-of-factly, “I exposed you to worse and worse injuries, and yet you insisted on inflicting that pain onto yourself. It was only until recently that you started to evolve towards your full capabilities.”

“What do you mean, full capabilities?” I ask, confused.

“When you were trying to get Number Seven out of her cell, why didn’t Number One stop you?”

“Because I punched him,” I answer. What is he getting at?

“It’s more than that and you know it.” he affirms, “When will you learn that you don’t need to suffer to help those around you?” 

I think back to that day. I could feel Luther weakening, and I felt stronger. I thought it was adrenaline. I remember what happened before I ended up here, when I’d given everyone my own energy, but how? I turn my hands over, looking for some sort of answer, and coming up empty.

“There’s no time to waste,” he gets up, and the room lights up, the darkness replaced with neutral tone walls. We’re in a hospital room, surrounded by beds inhabited by people with varying degrees of sickness. My stomach lurches. Not again. I can’t go through this again.

“What you see before you, Number Eight, is not only your answer, but your escape.” he states, arms sweeping across the rows of people. “Your body is surrounded by illnesses, so absorb them and use that energy. It’s at your disposal to speed up your own healing. You just need to tap into it.”

“They’re people, not trees,” I mutter, sinking toward the floor. His words are convoluted, and his theory is much easier said than done. And yet, he keeps pushing forward. Telling me, no, demanding that I use their wounds to heal myself. “Stop it,” I tell him, clasping my hands over my ears, but it’s no use. His words still make their way through the barrier.

“You’re not even going to try? You’re destined for greatness, Number Eight, and there’s no room for indecisiveness along that road.” His voice gets louder, sentences overlapping, drowning me with his lectures as they reach a crescendo.

“Can you please, just shut up!” I scream. A great force pushes on my ribcage, pulling me up as I gasp awake. I look around wildly, but it’s bright, too bright for this room. What’s going on? The light dims, and I realize it’s coming from me, the gold light emanating from my arms growing weak, and I can finally see where I am.

It’s the hospital. The real one. 

I need to get out of here. But I don’t even know where I am. I swing my legs over the bed, pushing past a nurse, who tries to hold me back. I try fighting her off, but the floor sways under my feet, no doubt a result of standing up so quickly. Three more nurses burst through the doors and grab me, their arms forcing me back onto the bed, as they plunge a needle into my neck, the dark pulling me back under.

\---------

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Again? I can’t be back at the Academy, it was destroyed. A bright light flashes behind my eyelids, as I force my eyes open.

“She’s awake.” I lift my arms instinctively, but I can’t pull them up. I look down, realizing that I’m restrained to a chair.

“What the hell?” As my eyes begin to adjust to the dim room, I realize that there’s two other people in the room. A man and a woman, both in suits. They write something down as they walk around me, like I’m something to entertain them. “What’s going on,” I ask, craning my neck to make out their notes.

“Why are you here?”

“Who sent you?” They throw questions like tennis balls, and I can’t say I’m much of an athlete.

“I don’t know anything, I swear. I just woke up in a hospital, and now I’m here.” They bring out my phone, the screen shattered, rendering it useless.

“What kind of technology is this?” 

Where-no, when the hell am I? Something about this room, and the way they carry themselves, makes me think this isn’t the 21st century.

“I don’t know what that is, or who you are,” I answer carefully, “Am I being arrested? I didn’t do anything, I swear.” The woman nods to the other guy, as he sets down his notes, then walks over as he begins to free my arm. I sigh in relief, “Thank you.” But instead of letting me go, he ties a strip of rubber around my upper arm, wiping my skin down with alcohol, as the heart rate monitor quickens.

“Preliminary exams indicate healing properties,” he tells the woman, “Commencing tests for properties while remaining conscious.” A flash of pain across my arm leaves me confused, as I register the scalpel in the man’s hand a second too late. He stands back, observing, while I will myself to stop the healing process, but I can’t control it. They share a glance, nodding in affirmation as the wound closes up in seconds. Shit.

They wouldn’t be satisfied until they knew what I was capable of. And so, the process began. Hours of new injuries, x-rays, and notes. Again, and again, to the point where it all became a blur, close enough to Hargreeves’ “training” that I zoned out of the worst of it.

That was, until the door opened, and a cart was wheeled in, a tray of needles glinting in the dim room. This is it. If they take my blood, and they find it useful, they won’t need me anymore. Who’s to say they won’t kill me, or even worse, drain me of my blood day by day, until there’s nothing left?

“Please, just let me go, I won’t tell anyone about this!” I plead, but they refuse to listen. I fight against the restraints, the bands digging into my skin as I arch in my seat, trying to move away from the needles.

The snap of the gloves on their skin is what finally brings me to my senses. My survival instincts are back, and my head snaps up, newfound energy fueling my desperation as the two suits stumble, an artificial vertigo bringing them to their knees.

“I’m done,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from my screams, “You’re going to let me out, if you want me to let you live, and hand over your wallets. You’ll erase any trace that I existed, and never look for me again.” Their voices beg for me to stop, words slurred as they fight against their sudden lack of energy. But they didn’t grant me that mercy.

Five minutes later, I burst into the hallway, FBI credentials in hand, as I stare down the barrel of a gun. Guns, to be precise. I look around quickly, then sprint towards the end of the hall, diving through the window as a round of bullets spray the walls. 

I guess this is the fourth floor. As the pavement grows closer, I let my body go loose, slightly tucking in my legs, as I tumble onto the ground.

I get back up, my legs moving sluggishly as more bullets embed themselves into the ground, zigzagging as I try to reach a building I can use to take cover. Right as I reach it, someone pushes me into an alley, a volley of bullets striking the pole where I had just been standing. My breath staggers as I flatten my back up against the wall, hands up as I blindly swing at the stranger.

“Cut it out! I’m trying to help you!” they hiss, grabbing my swinging fists. The tension goes out of my shoulders as I realize it’s Five. I hug him tightly, relieved to see a familiar face.

“You’re here!” I exclaim, my eyes stinging “What happened?”

“There’s no time, we need to get out of here,” he says, and I follow him as we run down the street, ducking the authorities. He opens the door to a building, and I barrel through, the brightly lit room dazing me, as I knock down a wide-eyed stranger. He looks away quickly, and I realize why. I’m still in a hospital gown, and my adventures as a fugitive have left it pretty breezy.

I cover myself as best as possible, “Do you have a bathroom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a while, but I'm back! New year, and a new chapter to a new part! Shit hit the fan after posting the final chapter of Part 1, in both the story and my personal life, but I've prepared to keep posting! Life is unpredictable and I thank you for your patience in case if I need a little time later down the road. Thank you so much for your support, and I hope you enjoy! :)


	2. Not in Kansas

Plink. Plink.

After collecting a neat pile of glass on the bathroom sink, I sweep it into the wastebasket. Now that I am officially glass-free, and in actual clothes, I guess I should go out and talk to Five. I swing the door open, but the only person outside is Five’s friend. I should probably introduce myself. I feel bad, his only impression of me so far has been my bare ass.

“Excuse me,” I say, tapping his back. He jumps, a scream escaping his mouth as his coffee stains his shirt. I hold my arms out, trying to neutralize the situation. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m (Y/n), (Y/n) (L/n)” I say, extending my hand.

“Elliot,” he answers, his handshake as nervous as his voice.

“Right...” I glance around the room, the silence filling the cavernous space. “Is Five here?” He shakes his head, and I continue pacing the room, sneaking glances at technology that definitely isn’t from the 21st century. “Hey, Elliot, what year is it?”

“1963.” What the hell happened that brought us back here? My mind spirals, different explanations crowding my thoughts, and I sit on the couch. It’s too late for this. My shoes tap a staccato rhythm on the floor, the only noise in the silent room. I watch the clock as the hours pass, waiting for Five to come back. I’d go out and look for him but I’d have no idea where to even start.

Eventually Elliot goes to sleep, no doubt after seeing I was waiting to speak to Five. I would too, but every time I close my eyes, my heart races, the two FBI agents’ voices threaded in the air.

I sigh, and grab a chair from the dining hall, dragging it down towards the door. If they’re coming for me, might as well be prepared. Glass bottle in hand, I sit, facing the entrance. I may be tired, but I need to be ready for a fight. More hours pass, the number of hands on the clock increasing as my vision becomes more hazy.

Suddenly, Five appears, the noise from his entrance scaring me, as I hurl the bottle at his head. He ducks quickly, before speaking. “So, I found Luther, but he doesn’t want anything to do with the apocalypse. He’s too busy working as Jack Ruby’s bodyguard.”

“Apocalypse? Again?” I ask, “Wait....Jack Ruby? Like the guy that killed Oswald? That Jack Ruby?”

“Yes, that Jack Ruby,” he answers impatiently, “As for the apocalypse, it happened, and I brought us all back in time to escape it. But I guess we brought it with us.” I groan, leaning back into the chair.

“If I had a nickel...” I mumble, before huffing in frustration. “We fight to stay alive and save the world, only for the universe to find another way to fuck us over,” I lament, “Here’s an idea...why not just...let it happen?”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he answers sarcastically, “Your pessimism isn’t appreciated, (Y/n). I’d say I was surprised by your willingness to die, but your little stunt a couple of days ago already proved that to me.” He hesitates, “Thank you...for helping us, I don’t know if we would have made it.” 

My eyes widen. Five thanking somebody, and it isn’t sarcasm? The apocalypse is definitely still on. He bends down, picking up a shard of glass. “Pessimistic, reckless, and I guess I can add impulsive to that list. You plan on stopping the federal government with...a glass bottle?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve been told I ‘lack self preservation’,” I answer, kicking the pieces of the bottle into a corner, “Besides, the only other thing Elliot had was a bunch of utensils, and I’m not exactly the best at throwing sharp objects. Speaking of which, tell me you’ve found Diego?”

“He’s in an institution,” Five answers carefully.

“An institution? Why? You haven’t been able to get him out?”

“He’s trying to stop Kennedy’s assassination, and I think that’s what gets us into this shitstorm in the first place,” he justifies.

“So you plan on letting him stay there for what, the rest of his life? We need to get him out, he can help us,” I plead, appealing to Five’s logical side, but he decides against it.

“Just long enough for this week to play out.”

“You know what, fine,” I say, brushing off my pants and grabbing a couple of the larger shards of glass that I tuck into my pockets, just in case.

“Where are you going?” he asks, watching as I get ready.

“To free him, myself,” I say, moving towards the door. Five teleports in front of me, blocking the door handle.

“You realize how stupid that decision is? You almost died out there just now, and every officer on the streets is looking for a (e/c) eyed, (h/c) hair fugitive,” he argues, face laced with annoyance.

“Ok, then come with me. That way we can both fight them off,” I offer, as I try moving around him, but he shuts me down again.

“Are you listening to yourself right now? I can’t do that, and you know why.”

“Well, then I guess you’ll see this ‘fugitive’ on the news in the morning,” I retort, crossing my arms, “Maybe you can go ahead and give them my name while you’re at it, or should I go ahead and wear a name tag?”

“You know what? Fine!” he says, throwing his arms up, “I’ll give you the address...on one condition. You don’t go until the morning.” It takes every ounce of my strength not to fight him again, but we’re both one step from hypertension, so I nod in agreement.

“Deal,” I answer, and follow him to the kitchen, where he scribbles something onto a piece of paper, and hands it over. “So, what exactly are you planning on doing next?” I ask, as I store the address in my pocket. Five explains what he saw when he arrived earlier today, and his plan to gather everyone else. He also explains that I hadn’t been at the nuclear battlefield, which is why he came to find me first. I mull this information over, then it hits me.

“I’m pretty sure I was dead before that even happened. I only survived this time because you found me, and pushed me out of the way of those bullets,” I conclude, slightly annoyed that he was right. Five agrees, and sits next to me, clearly smug. We both look at the wall, thinking about this turn of events.

“Hey, is Elliot awake? I need his help developing something,” he finally says, as he hands me an orange box. Frankel Footage. “It must be important, Hazel gave it to me right before he died.”

“Hazel? Since when are we cool with him?” I ask, suddenly sitting up, “How long was I out?”

“A little over a year, according to Elliot. As for Hazel, he left the Commision to start a new life,” Five answers, looking like he’s fighting a migraine.

“Jesus...did I really miss that much? I’m going to need a recap or something eventually. Elliot’s asleep, so you’re going to need to wait until the morning,” I say, pointing at the dark bedroom. Five sighs, grabs the tape, and disappears, be it to sleep or finish getting drunk, I don’t know anymore. From my seat on the couch, I run my fingers over the paper in my pocket, counting the hours until I can finally head out.

\--------

Time is a social construct. That is the conclusion I’ve reached after not sleeping for a little over a year. Does being in a coma count as sleep? I mean, my mind wasn’t always awake but I guess healing yourself for a year does things to your brain, and my double vision is arguing that it needs rest. Now.

It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore, but at some point, I guess Elliot finally wakes up. That would explain the bowl of cereal in front of me. Five comes back, or has he been back? and he talks to Elliot about developing the film. Their conversation is starting to get difficult to follow, their words floating in the air like insects. I shake my head and continue eating cereal. When I look up again, Elliot is alone. “Where did he go?” I ask, but when I blink, Elliot is gone.

I definitely need to clear my head. I grab a glass of water, and drink it quickly. Everything still feels like it’s underwater, and my eyes are so itchy. I rub them quickly and splash more water onto my face, trying to wake up as much as possible. There’s no time to waste.

\------

After borrowing some of Elliot’s clothes, I head out of the building, a hat and a large coat serving as a disguise. Of course, I have no idea how to get to the address on the note, and everyone I ask keeps giving me weird glances or outright ignoring me. The things I would do for a map, right about now.

Eventually, a nice woman explains how to get to the place on the paper, and I stand in front of the establishment, confused. The Carousel Club? I double check to make sure the address is the same, and it is. I swear, if he sent me to some random place in Dallas…I take my hat off in frustration, throwing it onto the ground as I try not to scream.

“(Y/n)?” I turn around at the sound of my name. Of course, Five sent me to do his dirty work. Asshole.

“Hey Luther...it’s been a minute,” I say, walking up to Luther, who awkwardly pats my back, as he takes in my attire.

“Where have you been? Are you...okay?” he asks, and I can’t imagine why. It might be the dark circles under my eyes, or the still-fading scars from last night.

“I’ve been...around. Never better,” I answer lightly, as I take a look at his car, the door open as the engine runs. “Are you headed somewhere?” I ask, not wanting to disclose anything else just yet.

“Yeah, I need to go return a wallet. Someone left it at the bar last night. I work there now” he explains, gesturing awkwardly toward the club. I open the passenger door and get in.

“I’ll come with you,” I answer, “I’ve heard all about your new friends. Jack Ruby, Luther, seriously?” Five probably wants me to get Luther on board, might as well. Luther looks conflicted, but silently agrees as he gets into the car.

“Mr. Ruby isn’t that bad,” he mumbles, and I sigh. We head out onto the road, where the only sound is the car radio, the music becoming more warped as we venture into the countryside, miles of farmland separating us from the signals.

We finally pull into a dirt road, and Luther cuts the engine. I grab the door handle, ready to get out and stretch my legs. “Wait,” he says suddenly, “Stay in the car, I’ll be back soon.”

“What do you mean stay in the car?” I argue, “...wait a minute. Is this some sort of mafia thing? Is ‘returning a wallet’ code for something?”

Luther rolls his eyes, opening the door. His shoes crunch on the dirt road as he walks away. I move over to his empty seat and call after him, “You better tell me what this is about when you get back, or I’ll find Ruby and ask him, myself!” 

He walks into a barn, which is a pretty suspicious place to return a wallet. But hey, I already have enough on my plate with the FBI, so I lean back in my seat, ready to see how this plays out.

\-------

A couple of minutes have passed, and he’s still not back. Is this what pets feel like when they’re left behind in cars? I peel off Elliot’s coat, the sweltering heat of the countryside threatening to suffocate me. I look up again once I’m free, and someone is out there. A woman? A woman with a rifle. This is definitely some sort of mafia shit.

She heads into the barn and I slowly make my way out of the car, walking quietly towards them. Luther may be huge, but I’m pretty sure he’s no match against a gun. I lean against the side of the building, trying to assess the situation. Voices float through the wooden slats. Luther. A woman. Someone else. Is that…?

Before I can head inside, Luther walks out the door, and I slam into him. “Was that Vanya?” I ask, confused.

“Not really,” he sighs, as he heads into the car. I look back at the barn, before running after Luther.

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

“It’s Vanya, but she doesn’t remember anything. Not even her own name,” he answers, as I slide into the passenger seat. Before I can ask anything else, he pulls a gun from his waistband, placing it in the middle seat. 

“I know you did not bring a gun out here to see Vanya. Did you wake up today, and think to yourself, ‘Hey, why don’t I old yeller my amnesiac sister in a barn in the middle of nowhere?! Was that the plan, Luther?” I argue, my voice raising with every syllable.

“You don’t understand, (Y/n).”

“Then explain it to me!” He says nothing, hands tight on the steering wheel as we drive through the vacant road. I try waiting for an answer, but clearly, Luther isn’t providing it, so I do the next best thing. I grab the gun from the seat, and hurl it out the window, watching in the side mirror as it clatters on the road.

Luther turns his head back quickly. “What the hell?! Why would you do that?”

“Guns are for people that don’t try to kill their siblings every time there’s an apocalypse. There’s this thing called therapy, Luther. If we ever get back to the present, I’m making appointments for all of us, and you’ll be first, Number One.” I shoot back.

“I wasn’t trying to kill Vanya,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “I...I apologized. For everything I did to her. I thought the only way to protect everyone was to keep her locked up, and I was wrong. Even if she doesn’t remember it all, I still owe her that.” 

“...oh.” That was unexpected. Maybe Five had a point. I look back towards the road, then at Luther. “I’m sorry for thinking you would do that, but I feel like you know where I’m coming from. We can...we can go back for your gun. I promise I won’t throw it out anymore.” 

“Well, it’s too late for that,” he says, but grants me a hesitant smile, which I return. I guess being alone here changed something in him. I lean back in my seat, feeling overall better about this new Luther as the miles of empty fields whip past us, eyes closed, so that I don’t see as he shoots a worried glance back at me.

\-------

“FIVE!” I slam the door to Elliot’s open, ready to fight him for giving me the wrong address on purpose. But the house is quiet, the lights off. I close the door lightly, walking slowly into the kitchen, when I hear a faint, muffled shout coming from the corner. I move through the dark, until I come across the voice. “Elliot?” I ask, seeing him tied up to a chair. Before I can move to untie him, a shuffle behind me makes me drop to the floor, sweeping the intruder’s legs out from under them.

But the stranger gets back up just as quickly, using the momentum to try and land a kick to my head. I hold my arms up protectively, pushed back by their force into the doorway, the wood slamming into my spine. I hiss through my teeth, moving away as they aim to punch my face, so that they only catch my cheek. 

With my back to the wall, I flatten myself, and when they come closer, I quickly duck, jamming my elbow into their stomach, as they exhale in pain. We both stop to breathe, looking at each other clearly as my eyes adjust to the dark.

“Who sent you?” I hiss, moving to strike but she lunges forward, knocking the wind out of me by landing a punch to my stomach. As I struggle to fill my lungs with air, I parry her attacks, matching each one despite my weakened state.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot about you, (Y/n)” she says, ignoring my question as I duck to avoid another kick. 

“All good things?” I wheeze, as I tumble over the dining table, throwing a chair at her. She ducks, and it smashes against the wall, exploding into splinters and chunks of wood. How does she know my name?

“Too good to be true.”

“Then why,” I say, as I block another one of her punches, “are you insulting me by holding back?” There’s no way she couldn’t beat the shit out of me right now, I’m running on spite and a bowl of cereal. She responds by punching my face with her fist. Hard.

I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings, and when the world finally comes back into view, she’s got a gun. Ah, yes, another rifle. “That feels like cheating,” I say, hands raised as I let her lead me to a chair next to Elliot. She ties me up, covering my mouth with a cloth. Under different circumstances, I would be fine with waiting patiently for Five to come back, but the restraints on my hands make my stomach drop, the feeling too similar to my experiences from yesterday.

I close my eyes, shaking my head to make the images leave my head. The needles. The x-rays. The notes. The pain. I take deep breaths, focusing on the wallpaper, and Elliot’s breathing, which remind me that I’m here. I’m not in immediate danger, I don’t think.  You’re going to be fine, (Y/n). Five will come back, and Luther knows you’re here now, I think to myself. As I focus on coming back to reality, I hear the woman’s footsteps approach the door, as it swings open, and shut, the sliver of light an indicator that she’s left the building.

And now we wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! I'm back with Chapter 2! Thank you so much for your support and I hope you enjoy!


	3. 'Tis but a Scratch

Who are you...where did you come from...what is your purpose...healing properties...another x-ray...tibial break...(y/n)...DNA samples...distal radius fracture…(y/n)...under observation…(Y/N)!

My eyes snap open, cheek stinging as I try to remember where I am. “(Y/n), are you awake?” Five says, hand raised, ready to slap me again if necessary.

“I am now,” I answer, blinking forcefully, my dry eyes making it hard to concentrate. I look down at my hands, realising they’re untied, and I get up quickly.

“What’s with the costume?” he asks, and I remember my disguise, along with why I’d felt annoyed with him in the first place. I look at him incredulously, before mumbling.

“Maybe if you weren’t a compulsive liar, I’d be compe-”

“You know, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop tying up my friends,” Five calls out, and I look back quickly, seeing the lady from earlier more clearly, despite the dim room. I narrow my eyes, the blood pounding in my ears as I make my way towards her.

“You…”

“Not the time,” she answers, with a slight shake of her head. 

“What do you mean, not the-” I stop talking when I realize who’s lying down. “What did you do?” I say, kneeling down next to Diego, trying to assess the extent of his injuries.

“Not Lila. That honor would go to Reginald Hargreeves.” Five states, as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. 

“He’s here?” I ask, not really listening to the answer. So her name is Lila? Luckily, it seems to only be a stab wound, pretty deep, but it could be worse. I place my hand over the blood stained bandages, taking a deep breath, as I focus on healing Diego. I try ignoring the hollow feeling in my stomach, the association of pain with being held captive. It’s difficult, but after a couple of seconds, the healing process is complete. I grab the remaining bandages from beside Lila and haphazardly wrap them around my stomach.

I know it’s only a couple of minutes before the adrenaline wears off and the pain will become unbearable. I push past Five, and grab a glass filling it to the brim with water, before downing it quickly. I take deep breaths, bracing myself with a hand on the sink for what’s to come. 

“So you weren’t going to mention that she could do that?” Lila asks, eyebrows raised.

“It was inconsequential at the time,” Five answers, glancing up at the clock. My stomach begins to feel like it’s on fire, and I begin rummaging through Elliot’s cabinets, knocking over glasses, looking for alcohol, aspirin, anything to numb the pain. I strip off the heavy coat, tossing it on the table. “What do you need?” Five asks.

“Air,” I answer, slamming the door open, clutching my side as I take the smallest breaths to stop my stomach from moving too much. When I’ve finally begun to tolerate the warm pain, I go back inside, fumbling over the sink as I fill my glass again, honing in on the sound of the tap to ignore what’s becoming a worse sensation in my gut. I’m so distracted by the pain that I don’t hear what Five is saying, and I can’t see what’s happening, since my back is to the room. But I sure as hell pay attention once I have a blade pressed against my neck. Diego. I can’t help but find the whole situation a little bit funny.

“Is that a knife in your hand or are you happy to see me?” I tease, and at that moment, the pain becomes icy, a sensation that pierces through my organs as my legs go weak.

I hear a clang as the weapon drops to the floor. “(Y/n), (Y/n), (Y/n),” he says, repeating my name over and over again, like a prayer, clutching me tight to his chest.

“Hey stranger,” I whisper, my voice wavering as the pain in my gut begins invading every single one of my senses. Diego grabs me by the shoulders, pushing me away as he looks at me clearly for the first time in a while.

“You’re...you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” he asks, worried. His hand brushes my forehead lightly, no doubt sensing my oncoming fever. He looks down and I realize that my shitty attempt at bandaging myself has failed, the blood soaking my shirt in a growing circle.

“It’s nothing, trust me, I can walk it off,” I say, taking a few wavering steps to prove my statement. Which would have been great and all if I didn’t almost immediately pitch forward, almost landing face-first on the floor.

“This is bad,” Diego says, “Here, I’ll help,” He grabs my upper shoulders, acting as a crutch to my wobbly legs. I begin protesting, but when I see that he’s ignoring my false confidence, I let myself be led to Elliot’s bedroom. I guess he won’t be needing it, since he’s still fast asleep in the chair.

Diego helps me lay down on the bed, and heads for the door, “I’ll be right back, give me one second.” I immediately rip off the covers, ignoring the sharp pain in my side, desperate to stop feeling so cold. Before I can tunnel into the blankets, he comes back in, “No, no, no, you have a fever, you can’t use that many blankets.”

“Fuck the fever, it’s freezing.”

He raises his eyebrows, before holding out a damp towel. “Then you’re really going to hate this,” he says, placing it on my forehead. The cool compress is cold enough that I start shaking again, but I guess it’s necessary. “I’m going to lift up your shirt now, okay? I need to change your bandages and clean the wound. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, I’ve gone through it, too. It’ll probably be useless by tomorrow, but I don’t want to risk infection.” 

“Not as deep as a well, or wide as a church door...or whatever he said,” I answer, nodding, and he holds out another towel. I bite down, my screams muffled as he quickly disinfects the stab wound. When he’s finished, he flips the compress on my forehead, and I sigh, the cold counteracting the burning sensation near my stomach.

Sensing my weariness, Diego puts on a comical tone, “Now, as your nuse, I’m prescribing at least nine hours of sleep.”

“You’re not a very good nurse then. Look at my chart, turns out I’m allergic,” I answer, my eyes closed.

“Says who?”

“Me. I’ve been having some severe reactions. Nightmares, you know?” I open my eyes andI try sitting up to explain, immediately doubling over as my side aches.

“Don't...don’t do that,” he says, making me lie down again. I look up at the ceiling, making shapes in the pattern on the wall. It makes it easier to talk about these things that way. Or at least, the things that I can talk about right now.

“I can’t close my eyes anymore. I...I died Diego, and I’m scared. I’m so scared. What if I close them again, and I wake up, and I’m gone? I open them, and you’re gone?” I ask, taking measured breaths.

“It’s different now, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you out of my sight again. Anything to make sure you stay here.” I look back at Diego, his eyes reflecting the fire in his voice, before he catches my eyes, and his face softens. “You’re scared of disappearing? Okay,” he gently takes my hand, “I’ll hold you through your dreams, so that when you wake up, you’ll see you’re still here. Whatever it takes to make you feel safe again.” He squeezes my hand lightly.

“I can’t make you do tha-”

“You’re not making me. I want to,” he says firmly. “Anything you need.” His hand grounds me, reminds me that even if my mind is in another dimension, in that room again, it doesn’t matter, because I’m still physically here. I close my eyes, grateful for this anchor in a raging sea. But walking that tightrope between sleep and wake is terrifying, the whispers still filling my mind, a gross reminder of the procedural investigation, being treated like an exhibit. 

I turn to look at him again. I don’t want to bother him anymore...but I need to be able to sleep, just for a little. “Hey Diego...do you...do you think you could just talk? About anything. I’m just really cold, I don’t want to think about it,” I ask, trying to shift to an excuse that doesn’t require more explanations.

“Sure,” he says, but before he can start talking, I pat the bed next to me.

“As the patient, I say you need to lie down. I can’t make you do anything when you look as tired as I do.”

“As the nurse, I can’t-” he starts protesting, but I pull him beside me, the bed dipping under his weight. “I can’t give you a blanket, but I can hold you...if that helps?” I nod, and he wraps his arm around my waist, facing my back, as I face the wall. 

Diego starts talking. About his time in Dallas, about how he spent weeks looking for me. He didn’t want to give up, but every day he didn’t find any leads felt like another failure, so he went looking for Oswald, and he found him.

“I needed to do something. I thought, if I can just do one thing right, then I could find you. But then I fucked that up, too. They locked me up,” he recounts, voice laden with memories. I squeezed his hand, to remind him that he is here, too. He’s safe. “In there,” he continued, “Those first few weeks, I talked to myself like it was you. I thought, if I pretended you were with me, you’d be okay. You couldn’t be...dead.” He stays silent for a couple of minutes.

“You’re not there anymore,” I whisper, the words hanging between us.

He exhales, squeezing my hand back, before he continues to speak. “You know, when I was younger, I used to have nightmares, too. Mom would come into my room and sing this lullaby in Spanish, until I’d fall asleep. I guess it worked too well, and that whole year, whenever I heard any soft Spanish song, I swear I’d immediately get sleepy. So when Luther found out, he’d play records with that kind of music just to piss me off. It worked, and long story short we all lost record playing privileges for life.” I start laughing, imagining the chaos and Diego joins in.

“...can you...can you sing it for me?” I ask, hesitant.

“I would if I remembered the words. It was so long ago, I already forgot them.”

“That sucks,” I answer, trying to hide my disappointment.

“I can try humming it, if you want.”

“Please?” 

It’s quiet for a couple of minutes, as Diego tries to remember the song that brought him comfort in his own fears. Soon enough, he began humming, stumbling over the notes, and I turned to face him, resting my head on his chest as the vibrations made their way to my ears. My eyelids begin drooping, as a sense of ease comes over me. The final protest against sleep in my mind dissipates, as Diego begins stroking my head gently, in rhythm with the song he continued humming. A gesture so simple, but so full of...love?

I close my eyes, not caring if the world ended tomorrow if this is how I go. For the first time in a long while, the only voice I hear is the only one I want to.

“Good night, (Y/n),” he whispers, his voice a pillow for my dreams.

Finally, I sleep.


End file.
